


Put Roses in your Lupara

by TwixforBats



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwixforBats/pseuds/TwixforBats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald Cobblepot is clever enough to recognize a death threat when he sees it: a cupcake with a bullet in it is definitely one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Roses in your Lupara

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pseudothyrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/gifts).



> Always for you, my life and joy <3
> 
> Also, I do realize that, if we were to be truly honest to the characters, Edward wouldn't use the bullet cupcake again but rather find a new beautiful riddle just for Penguin. However, it was the bullet cupcake that gave me the idea - being such a perfect mafia message - and, honestly, there was no way that I could turn "you have a sharp brain" (a more probable compliment for Edward to give to Penguin) into something that Jonathan Crane isn't probably dreaming right now. I do apologize.

* * *

 

 

 

He remembers, as if it had happened years and years ago, when he had told Gordon that a war was coming: that there would be chaos, innocent people dying, and rivers of blood in the street.

He hadn't said that it would be in part his fault, though he really feels that the majority of the blame should fall on the bullet-filled cupcake he had found on his table in the Iceberg Lounge one day.

 

* * *

 

“I think you worry too much.”

Oswald tightens his lips into a thin line. “Don Falcone, with all due respect, _it's a cupcake with a bullet in it_.”

“Then take the bullet out and eat the rest.” Don Falcone chuckles briefly, ignoring Oswald's glare. “No one would ever specifically target you. I assure you, it's nothing more than a joke.”

 _I am not laughing,_ Oswald thinks to himself; still, he bows his head and leaves.

 

* * *

  
 

He's ignoring a stand-up comic when he finally registers a noticeably taller-and-skinnier-than-Butch presence standing next to him.

“Can I help you?” He asks, turning rather indignantly to what turns out to be the tall, weird officer with a smug grin who had followed him around at the police station.

“Mr. Cobblepot,” the freak says, leaning down slightly to better look him in the eyes; the fact that the officer feels the need to do that annoys Oswald incredibly. “You have turned this place into a rather n _ice_ lounge.”

His grin somehow manages to turn even more smug; Oswald, for his part, grows ever more unimpressed.

“Fred,” The officer frowns, which Cobblepot takes to mean he did not guess the right name. “ _Friend_ ,” he amends, his lips twisting into an amiable smile. “I'm afraid the club is not open right now.”

“Edward Nygma. That's the name. All you have to remember is enigma, or-”

“I will remember,” Oswald says curtly, snapping his fingers; out of the corner of his eye, he can see Butch turning towards him. “However, the point stands: the club is not open right now.”

“I just wanted to know if-”

“Is this going to be another riddle?”

Edward's face lights up. “Why, would you like to hear one?”

“No.” Oswald waves for Butch to come closer. “I will have my men walk you outside. Good evening, sir.”

 

* * *

 

It's been a week since the cupcake incident and Oswald has grudgingly started to accept the idea that, perhaps, it was all just a bad joke- until he sees the bunch of mewling cats in front of his club's entrance.

 

* * *

 

Don Falcone stares at the two fish tied together with a red ribbon that Oswald has just thrown on his desk.

“We might have a problem here,” he finally concedes.

 

* * *

 

Falcone is meeting the other mafia bosses of Gotham to solve his small problem, Butch and his men are working on the backstage, and Oswald finds himself with lots of free time to try and work out who, exactly, he pissed off enough to warrant two death threats. The list is fairly short, mostly because he's managed to have most of them killed, but still inconclusive; after all, he likes to think that he's made enemies clever enough to not loudly announce they're going to kill him soon.  
Then again, he knows Victor Szasz.  
But then again, Victor Szasz would presumably just drag him down into his basement.  
So, in conclusion, Oswald is wallowing in his own misery, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do about it.  
Yet.  
After all, he mentally chides himself in a way that would make his mother proud, there is always something one can do, eventually, when a vague outline of the enemy manages to filter through the fog. He just has to be patient, and cautious, and perhaps try not to take so long to notice that there's a tall freak standing right next to him.

 _Oh my god_ , he very nearly squawks; “what are you doing here,” he somehow manages to say, staring at the lanky officer who is looming over him with that irritating grin of his.

“Good evening, Mr. Penguin.” The officer says, for some reason positively beaming with what seems to be pride: Oswald feels his teeth grit against each other at that, and he does not have the energy to turn it into a smile.

“What are you doing here,” he asks again, standing (definitely _not_ 'wobbling') up to stop Edward from towering over him: unfortunately the officer keeps being a good head taller than him, which just makes his jaw clamp more. “How did you get in?”

“ _The thief does it to get in, the prisoner does it to get out, the fly would do it if it were stronger._ ”

“That is not even a riddle, it just-” Oswald frowns, a slow, dull pain building up on the left side of his face as he grinds his teeth a little more. “You smashed a window.”

The officer is positively beaming now. “ _Yes!_ Well, actually I just walked in through the front door, but you _did_ get the right answer, and that is cause enough to celebrate.”

He just walked in through the front door, thinks Oswald, his heart giving him an odd pang of pain as he realizes that, apparently, nobody bothered to guard the front door and anyone could have just walked in to kill him. “Then why did you imply you smashed a window.”

“I did not _imply_ I smashed a window, I just _told_ you a riddle. I did, however, _hope_ that you would interpret it in such way so that you'd be happy to know I didn't, in fact, damage your property in any way.”

Edward smiles, clearly expecting some sort of positive reaction, but Oswald's frown only gets deeper.

“Charming. Now, if you would please get off my property, I'd be-”

“I was wondering what you thought of my riddles?”

Oswald pauses, his hands briefly frozen in mid-air before slowly lowering to his sides. “I tend to dislike them.”

The smile on Edward's face falters, but it's back on way too soon for Oswald's taste. “But did you get them?”

Something freezes in the pit of Oswald's stomach, but he can't quite put his finger on the reason why: he knows for certain that something is amiss, but the answer to that particular riddle is still too hazy for him to look at clearly.

“You're dangerous but sweet. The cupcake is sweet, the bullet is dangerous, you're dangerous but sweet.”

And in that moment, with Edward beaming so proudly in front of him, Oswald finally gets it.

“You gave me a cupcake with a bullet in it.”

Edward nods – _nods!_ – and Oswald has to shut his eyes, the relief mixing with a mounting annoyance to create a poisonous mist in his chest.

“You...” he sighs, his breath slowly escaping his body in what he feels is an attempt of his brain to shut down his system and put him to sleep. “You sent me the fish, didn't you.”

“Yes.” Edward's voice is slightly uncertain now, but Oswald can feel his grin, can see it even with his eyes close, burned straight into his retinas. “You got rid of Fish, they call you Penguin, penguins like fish, so...”

So wrapped fish. Of course.  
But of course.

Oswald finally opens his eyes, tiredly glaring at Edward with whatever force his contempt can give him.

“ _Keep walking_.”

 

* * *

 

Butch doesn't laugh.  
Somehow, there isn't even a glint in his eyes, anything that might suggest that he finds the idea funny. Whatever Victor did, it worked perfectly.  
Oswald is grateful for that.

“That's good news for the club. Changing too many hands wouldn't be good for business.”

He glares at Butch but can't settle on a reason why. Is he annoyed by the disregard for his life? The levity with which he's taking the situation? The way Butch doesn't even twitch his lips into a semblance of a smirk, letting him subtly know that he is just speaking matter-of-factly? Or perhaps it's just the fact that Oswald doesn't feel like it's such good news?  
He can't decide exactly why he's glaring so he just glares, waiting for Butch to do something- either apologize or leave, he doesn't care.

“Well.” Butch says, finally getting the hint that the conversation would not continue- Oswald is sure that, whatever Victor did, it slowed his reaction time down. It might have, or perhaps Butch just doesn't particularly feel like talking to him: all of it is possible. “This also means that we can tell Falcone that you're not in danger.”

“ _No_.”

Butch frowns at Oswald's sudden outburst, but doesn't respond yet. Perhaps he's thinking that there's some sort of plan there. Perhaps there is, if Oswald actually tries to stop and think about it: there is a way for him to turn this disaster his way, if he manages to spin one of his masterful lies.

“No... no. No one must know about this.”

Unfortunately, he can't right now.

“No. I'd rather start a war.”

And even if Butch stares at him disapprovingly, it is the absolute truth: he'd rather have rivers of blood running down the streets of Gotham than have anyone know this sorry mess of a situation.

“Just... I'm going to send my mother to Metropolis.”

He'll find a way to turn the situation to his advantage later.


End file.
